and dounWithinne oure yerd, and that I saw a beest,Was lik an hound, and wold have made arrestUpon
my body, and wold have me deed.His colour was bitwixe yelow and reed;And tippèd was his tail, and
bothe his eeresWith blak, unlik the remnaunt of his heres.His snowt was smal, with glowynge eyen tweye;Yet
of his look for fear almost I deye;This causèd me my gronyng doubteles.Away! quoth she, fy on you,
herteless!Allas, quoth she, for, by that God above,Now have ye lost myn hert and al my love;I can
nought love a coward, by my feith.For certes, what so eny womman seith,We alle desiren, if it mighte
be,To have our housbondes, hardy, riche, and fre,And secret, and no fool and no nigard,Nor him that
is agast of every swerd,Nor boaster none, by that God above;How dorst ye say for shame unto your
love,That any thing might make yow afeard?Have ye no mannes hert, and have a berd?Allas! and can
ye be of dremes agast?Nothing, God wot, but vanitee at last.Dremes are engendred of repletións,And
often of fumes, and ill complexioúns,Whan humours be abundaunt in a wight.Certes this dreem, which
ye have had to-night,Cometh of the grete superfluiteeOf youre blod and red coloúr, pardé,Which causeth
folk to dremen in there dremesOf arrows, and of fyr, with reede beemes,Of rede bestis, that thay wil
him byte,Of contest, and of whelpis greet and lite;Right as the humour of maléncolieCauseth, in sleep,
ful many a man to crye,For fere of beres, or of bulles blake,Or else blake develes wol him take.Of other
humours coude I telle also,That wirken many a man in slep ful wo;But I wil passe as lightly as I can.Lo
Cato, which that was so wis a man,Sayde he nought thus, Care thou not of dremes?Now, sir, quoth
she, whan we flee fro thise beemes,For Goddis love, tak thou som laxatyf;On peril of my soule, and
of my lyf,I counsel you the best, I wil not lye,That bothe of coloure, and of malencolyeYe purge yow; and
that ye may nouht tarye,Though in this toun is non apotecarie,I shal myself with herbes phisik you,That
shal be for youre helth I dar avow;And in oure yerd the herbes shal I fynde,The whiche have of her propretee
by kyndeTo purgen you bynethe, and eek above.Forget not this, for Goddis owne love!Ye be ful colerik
of complexioún.Beware the sonne in his ascensioúnFinde yow not replet in humours hote;And if it do, I dar
wel lay a grote,That ye shal have a fever terciane,Or elles an agu, that may be your bane.A day or tuo
ye shal have dígestivesOf wormes, ere ye take your laxatives,Oflauriol, century, and fumitory,Or elles of
elder bery, that growith thereby,Of catapus, or of dogwood berrys,Of yvy in our yerd, that mery is;Pike
hem up right as thay growe, and et hem in.Be mery, housbond, for your fader kyn!Drede no dremes; I
can say no more.Madame, quod he, gramercy for your lore.But natheles, as touching Dan Catoun,That
hath of wisdom such a gret renoun,Though that he bad no dremes for to drede,By God, men may in
olde bookes redeOf many a man, more of auctoriteeThat ever Catoun was, so telle I the,That say ful
other wise in there sentence,And have wel founden by experience,That dremes be significacioüns,As wel
of joye, as tribulaciouns,That folk enduren in this lif presént.Ther nedeth make of this no argument;The
verray proof is shewid forth in dede.One of the grettest authors that men rede,Saith thus, that whilom
two feláws are wentOn pylgrimage in a ful good entente;And happèd so, thay com into a toun,Wher as
ther was such congregaciounOf people, and eek such lack of herbergage,That thay fond nought as moche
as one cotage,In which that thay mighte bothe i-lodgèd be.Wherfor thay musten of necessitee,For that
one night, parten there compaignye;And ech of them goth to his hostelrye,And took his lodging as it
wolde falle.The one of them was lodgèd in a stalle,Fer in a yerd, with oxen of the plough;That other man
was lodgèd well ynough,As was his áventúre, or his fortúne,That us govérnith all and in comune.And so bifel,
that, long ere it were day,This one dremed in his bed, ther as he lay,How that his felaw gan upon him
calle,And sayd, allas! for in an oxe stalleThis night I shal be murdrid where I lye.Now help me, deere
brother, or I dye;In alle haste cum to me, and take my part.This man out of his slep for fear upstarte;But
whan that he was waked out of his sleep,He tornèd him, and took of this no keep;He thought his dreem
was but a vanité.Thus twies in his sleepe dremèd he.And at the thridde time yet his felaweCom, as he
thought, and sayd, I am now slawe;Bihold my bloody woundes, deep and wydeArise up erly in the morning
tyde,And at the west gate of the toun, quoth he,A carteful of donge there shalt thou see,In which my
body is hyd ful prively;Arrest the cart and that right boldely.My gold causèd my murdre, soth to sayn.And
told him every poynt how he was slayn,With a ful piteous face, pale of hewe.And truste wel, his dreem
he found ful trewe;For on the morrow, sone as it was day,To his feláwes inn he took the way;And whan
he cam ny to this oxe stalle,After his felaw he bigan to calle.The hostiller he answered him anon,And
sayde, Sir, your felaw is agon,As soone as day he went out of the toun.This man gan falle in a suspeccioún,Remembring
on his dremes as he laye,And forth he goth, no longer wold he staye,Unto the west gate of the toun,
and foundA dong cart as it went to dong the ground,That was arrayèd in the same wiseAs ye have herd